Thou Shalt Not Disobey
by Telturwen
Summary: The victims surrounding Sam and Dean's usual cases are normally found in the obits section of the local newspaper, but it's an attempted suicide that leads them in circles. Something is making this family want to kill themselves, and who could blame them?
1. Sinners Must Cry

**Disclaimer: **Ya know, the usual. We own everything that you don't recognize and nothing that you do. ;)

**A/N:** Hey guys! Thanks for checking out the story me and _Queen Jane Approximately_ wrote. We'll be adding to it as often as possible. It's going to be a series of stories, modeled after the Ten Commandments. This one is _Disobey_, and will be followed by _Steal_,_ Covert_,_ Lie_,_ Kill_, etc. So let us know how good or bad the story is thus far, we really appreciate any reviews we get! And I have nothing more to say, so enjoy!

Thou Shalt Not_  
Disobey_

**Sinners Must Cry****  
**

"Brian, this is the last time I'm going to tell you to get into bed."

Tara Taylor stood in the doorway of her nine-year-old brother's bedroom, one hand planted firmly on her hip. She was trying her best not to laugh at the death glare he was giving her, for there was nothing sinister about it—he couldn't frighten a ghost. He sat on his bed with his legs dangling over the edge and his arms crossed obstinately over his scrawny chest, a clear indication of his youth. He wasn't submitting that easily, but his big sister was tired and no longer in the right frame of mind to play games with him.

"All right," she sighed. "I guess I'll just have to unplug the TV for a week and tell all your friends that you're sick …"

He sat up straighter, and challenged her authority confidently. "You wouldn't do that."

"You wanna bet?"

And that's always when the game ended—when Brian realized that she was serious, which she always was. He was under the covers before she could turn out the lights.

"Good night, little man," Tara said, her exhaustion at arguing with him almost tangible. She couldn't understand why children resisted bedtime as much as they did. Sometimes, after a long day, sinking into her pillows and under her covers was the pinnacle of her very existence—sometimes nothing was better. But that just wasn't how it was for little kids, and on those days and those nights that she took care of Brian, she'd just have to endure it.

"Remind me never to become a mother," she said wearily, joining her sister Callie in the girls' shared bathroom.

The eighteen-year-old regarded Tara with a disproving expression. "I believe you've already assumed that role. We're almost out of toothpaste, by the way," she continued. "But I saved you some. Here."

"Well, you know what I mean. Thank you."

"Yeah, I'll be sure to add that to my list of _Things to Remind My Sister Never to Do_." She stuck her toothbrush into her mouth as she spoke, so her words came out garbled and unclear. "This will be number two hundred and fifty-six – never have children of your own."

"And what are the other two hundred and fifty-five?"

Callie grinned. "See? It's a good thing I made the list."

And then, for a while, consumed with their nightly rituals of face-washing and hair-combing and changing from one garment into the next, the girls did not speak to one another, preferring not to provide each other with distractions. Callie was focused and bent on brushing her hair one hundred times in a row, an obsessive habit she'd picked up at the age of seven, and it wasn't until she approached comb-through number ninety that Tara interrupted her, looking serious and sad.

"Callie."

"Yeah?"

"You do remember what tomorrow is, don't you?"

The younger girl furrowed her brow and got to her feet, feeling suddenly sentimental. "Of course I know what tomorrow is," she said. "How could I forget?"

"Well, I'm taking off work." Tara shifted her weight from one foot to the other and then tightened her bathrobe so that it hugged her thin frame. She was apprehensive and tense. "I'm going to give Grandma and Grandpa an extended break and take care of Brian for the day, too. He's already got a play date with a friend from down the street set up for the afternoon. You can stay home from school if you want to."

"Thanks, but I think I'd rather just go," Callie said. She moved slowly down the hall to her bedroom, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger the way she always did when she felt the sharp tinges of grief and stress beginning to prick at her otherwise passive emotions.

Tara followed her, tightening the robe again. It squeezed her waist now. "Are you sure?"

"If I go, I won't have to think about them. I'll have other things to focus on."

"But … you can't—"

"It _bothers_ me to think about them, okay?" Callie didn't look at her sister as she turned down her sheets and aligned her pillows, or when she picked up her book and curled up on her window seat, noticing for the first time the branches scratching at the glass like long fingernails. "I just think I'd be better off if I didn't have to. And Cheyenne can give me a ride home, so don't worry about picking me up, or anything."

Tara nodded. "Okay. Well, if that's what you want to do. Just don't forget, all right?"

"What kind of daughter would I be if I forgot my own parents?" Now Callie did look at Tara, their eyes meeting slowly. The shadow of the tree branch on the pale yellow wall behind the older girl appeared to be waving sullenly.

"I'll see you in the morning," Tara said, her voice quiet. "Sleep well."

"Yeah. You, too."

-----

"And she asked me if I wanted to stay home from school today, too. There was no way I was going to do that."

Callie leaned her head against the cool window of her best friend's Mercedes. She felt as if her skin was on fire, and the chilling sensation of the glass on her forehead was inviting and soothing. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing her tense muscles to relax.

"Why not?" Cheyenne accelerated through a yellow light and Callie's stomach lurched. "I don't think I'd want to be in school on a day like today if it were me. I wouldn't be able to focus."

"That's the point. I told her I wanted to be in school because then I wouldn't _have_ to focus on my parents. But that's not really why I didn't want to stay home."

"Uh, okay? Elaborate? I guess I'm not totally grasping what you mean here …"

"Because I know what happens there on this day, every single year. They come back."

Cheyenne laughed. "Come on, Callie. You can't be serious. They can't 'come back.' That's impossible."

Callie sunk lower in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest like a petulant child. "That's what you think."

"I just don't believe in that stuff. I think it's crap."

"Yeah? Well, what about last year—that car accident on Orchard? Same day, same road my parents were killed on? What about that?"

"So there was a freaky coincidence," Cheyenne argued. "Big deal. Callie, your parents have been gone for eight years. If they ever 'came back' at all, it probably would have been right after they died, or something. If that's what you think is happening now, then I think that's kind of random and weird."

"I am finding it increasingly pointless to argue with you about this," Callie mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. Nevermind." She unbuckled her seatbelt as Cheyenne pulled into her driveway and changed the subject before her friend had the opportunity to question it any further. Best friends forever or not, Callie knew she didn't understand. "I'll call you later, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. You gonna be all right?"

Callie nodded and grabbed her bag from the seat. She stood in her driveway and watched as Cheyenne pulled away from her and disappeared down the quiet road. It was a chilly afternoon, overcast and pale, and Callie felt weary and drawn from the entire universe. Everywhere else, people were busy with their lives and their families and their friends, but here in Callie's world, it was just a day that she wished she didn't have to relive year after year – as far as she was concerned, and probably Tara too, once a year was one year too many.

A light snow began to fall gently around her as she dug her house keys out of her bag and fumbled for the right one. The snow dusted her hair and the dead grass with a frosty mist that melted just as quickly as it appeared, and an icy breeze colored her cheeks a dusky rose. Callie shivered as she pushed open the front door, grateful at once for the warmth of the inside.

"Tara?" she called out. "I'm home!"

There was no response. Immediately puzzled, Callie bit her lip and glanced from the front room into the dining room, wondering why her sister wasn't acknowledging her. That wasn't like her. She knew Tara was here – the car was in the driveway, and there was an empty mug and a _Newsweek_ magazine sitting open on the coffee table. Wherever she was, she couldn't have gone far.

"Tara?" Callie tried again, raising her voice just a bit this time. "I'm home, in case you didn't hear me …"

Still nothing. The house was eerily quiet, and Callie was beginning to feel as if she'd just stepped into a Stephen King film. Her heart was pounding and the heightened sensation of her blood buzzing in her veins was making her dizzy. Something was very wrong. She set her bag down on the couch and walked through each room, checking corners and closets, fearing the worst at every turn. She thought she'd watched enough horror films with Cheyenne over the years to be prepared for anything. _Except for this._

She stopped cold in the kitchen and just managed to choke out, "Oh my God", before an immeasurable fear consumed her and she let out a terrified, bone-chilling scream. There on the tile lay her sister Tara, unconscious, her feet bare and her skin flushed. The oven door hung open as if she had just been about to put something in, and the room was warm because the appliance had never been turned off.

Hands shaking furiously, Callie reached for the telephone, never once taking her eyes off of her big sister. She panicked more and more each time she swore she saw some sign of life that only turned out to be her imagination.

Tara couldn't have done this, she thought helplessly. Not today. Not ever.


	2. Good Grief

**Disclaimer: **Same as chapter one.

**A/N:** Little bit longer that the last, but that's because the last was the intro chapter. I don't really have anything else to add, except I hope you like it. Let us know your thoughts, please!

Thou Shalt Not  
_Disobey_

**Good Grief  
**

"Dean, you were the one who ran into the screen door. I remember, it was when we were hunting that phantom in Creelsboro."

"You mean Hanton?" said the older Winchester, his expression a mix of incredulity and smug confidence—incredulity due to his know-it-all little brother's lapse in memory, and the smugness due to that notorious trait of being full of himself. "We were staying at that crappy motel, the White Rock. Dad wouldn't bring you to the cemetery because we'd just found out the thing could use mind control and he didn't want you holding a can if you couldn't fight it."

"What?" It wasn't often Sam forgot the details of childhood memories, so the rise in his voice was justified, but that didn't stop Dean's smirk.

"You got all hulked up and tried to follow us," he continued. "You opened the door, but you forgot there was a screen." Dean took his hands off of the wheel for a brief second to illustrate a collision, complete with sound effects, and chuckled. "Ah, that was _great_."

"That's not how it happened," Sam said coolly, clearly unable to accept the fact that his younger self had done something stupid.

"And you would know." Dean raised his eyebrows as an imitation of the disbelief he'd felt earlier. "Dude, you thought we were in Kentucky. That's not even in the same time zone."

Sam gave him a sour look; Dean stared ahead at the road with an amused smile. After a silent pause, Sam turned so his back was against the seat again.

"Aw, don't be a poor sport, Sammy," Dean said, turning the radio down on Grand Funk Railroad. "You were always more of a nerd than a klutz, anyway. Let's hear some of that juicy research you dug up."

Sam didn't move.

"C'mon, man, hit me!"

"You have no idea how much I want to," Sam mumbled while he bent down to collect a few papers from the floor.

"What?" Dean asked, genuinely curious.

"She's twenty-five years old," he replied without hesitation.

"Who?"

"Our victim."

Dean nodded thoughtfully, but was silent for a moment. "You said '_she's_'."

"Yeah."

"Aren't our victims usually '_was_'?"

"Usually," Sam said, shuffling through the newspaper clippings, "our victims aren't closed-case suicides." Dean gave him an _all-right-this-sounds-interesting_ look, but didn't comment. Sam read the main portion of the article aloud. "'Tara Taylor, a supervisor at the Chicago branch of Mastercard, attempted suicide yesterday, coincidentally on the anniversary of her parents' deaths. She used an unconventional method by inhaling fumes from an oven. When paramedics arrived at the scene, their diagnosis was carbon monoxide poisoning. Doctors have yet to explain her condition, as the Taylor family oven is operated by electricity. Police have made a statement about a gas leak, but nothing has been confirmed.'"

Dean sighed and looked out the windshield again, disappointed. "Sounds like your typical Sylvia Plath."

"'The second Taylor child, Carlene, says that in the eight years they have had to cope with their loss, she could think of no reason why Tara would so suddenly succumb to her grief.' You don't think _that's_ weird? I mean, come on, Dean. The girl is poisoned with gas in an electric oven. No probable cause, no _means_, and it happens on the day her parents died. You don't think that's just one too many coincidences?"

"I dunno, Sam. It's been a while since we've snagged a case. I think you're just grasping at straws."

"Dean, we're thirty miles out of Mundelein," he said, a determined edge to his voice. "The least we can do is make sure I'm wrong."

"All right, fine, Marlowe." Dean turned the radio back up, and "We're an American Band" blasted through the speakers at the chorus, 'We're come into your town, we'll help you party it down.' "Let's go check out the suicidal chick."

-----

"Man, I feel like a geek."

Dean tugged at his shirt, making a face. Sam glanced over at him while straightening his tie and laughed.

"Sure you don't want a pocket protector to finish it off, Point Dexter?"

The look Dean gave him could have killed a newborn kitten. "I didn't pick this out," he said, gesturing to his ridiculous outfit – a brown sweater underneath a beige suit coat. "It's your fault. You're all about people's feelings. Now you're starting to dress me like a shrink."

"Maybe you should try dressing yourself, then," Sam said easily, checking the hospital's room numbers as he passed them. "We're getting close."

"Dude, I'm James Dean; this is _Dr. Phil_," Dean said, accentuating the names. "You can't expect Dean to play dress-up as Phil." He paused for a second and then, realizing his pun, continued with, "Ha! That was good."

"Yeah, you're hilarious."

A green-suited nurse rounded the corner and they both followed her with their eyes. She smiled at them after she looked up from slipping a patient's charts into the clipboard slot next to the door. They smiled back and once she turned, Dean nodded his approval.

Sam slapped the back of his hand on Dean's chest and nodded at the nearest door to tell him they'd reached their destination.

"Remember, you're a counselor. At least _try_ to be sympathetic."

Dean scoffed as he grabbed the clipboard from its slot outside the door and headed in after Sam.

There was a girl in the bed and a girl in the chair next to it. The one in the bed was sleeping peacefully, her heart rate sounding every second like clockwork on the monitor. The one in the chair was holding the first girl's hand, looking forlorn and teary-eyed, like she'd just watched the climax of a soap opera.

"We're really sorry to interrupt," said Sam.

"We didn't think your sister would be asleep," Dean said, looking up from the clipboard to see the vigilante's startled face, "Carlene."

"My name's Callie," the girl said defensively, quickly swiping her shirt sleeve across her face to dry up her wet eyes.

"What kind of a – " Dean began before he glanced at Sam, whose expression clearly stated, _Don't go there_. "My mistake," he corrected, impassively.

"Who are you?" Callie asked quietly.

"I'm Phillip, this is James. We're grief counselors; we work for the hospital." Callie's eyebrows rose an inch at that point. "We were told to come in at three, but we must have misread the sheet," Sam continued apologetically. "We'll come back another time, if that's all right with you."

They turned to leave. Callie made to stand up, but couldn't manage without dropping her sister's hand. "No, it's … it's fine. You can stay. Tara will probably be up soon."

"Thank you," Sam said, sitting down on a chair across the room; Dean followed, clipboard at his side.

They sat there in awkward silence for a few minutes before Dean couldn't stand it anymore. "Well, since Tara is … indisposed, is it alright if we talk with you?" he asked in a mockingly Sam-ish tone. "See if we can clear a few things up?"

Callie slipped her hand out from under her sister's and let it fall to the bed. "How can I help?"

Sam began the questioning. "We don't want to pry too deep too fast, but we need to know – Callie, how did your parents pass?"

She was silent for some time, staring at the heart rate monitor, before she picked up her sister's hand again. "My, um … look, my sister didn't try to commit suicide, so she doesn't need grief counselors."

Dean picked up the clipboard, even though he already knew the situation, and said, "Tara was found on the floor next to an open oven. She made sure she was alone in the house. Your parents – "

"James," Sam said in a warning tone.

"Well, with all due respect, Miss Taylor, with all this evidence, we can only assume …"

"She was cooking," Callie interrupted sternly, as if she were demanding them to believe her side of the story, "and she fell down. Because the Tara I know – the one I've lived with for eighteen years – would never have done something like that."

Sam's eyebrows scrunched together in speculation. "Do you mean she would never do that to herself, or she would never leave you alone?"

Callie shifted her eyes to the sheet on the bed, averting them from the counselor's stare. Dean looked at Sam, holding up his hands in disbelief.

"James, can you excuse us?"

As soon as Callie picked up her head, Dean dropped his _are-you-serious_ expression. He stood up, sending a concealed look in Sam's direction and opened the door. "Let me know when she wakes up, Phil," he said as he walked out.

As the door closed, Callie asked, "Is he always that much of a jerk?"

"He's just, uh, used to a different clientele, I guess you could say," Sam replied, turning his head away from the door. He grabbed the chair he had been sitting on and dragged it closer to Callie's. As he sat back down, she said, "Before you start questioning me about personal stuff I really don't wanna talk about, I need to ask you something."

"All right."

Callie eyed him hesitantly. "Why are there two of you?"

Sam smiled slightly. "Well, there're two of _you_, aren't there?"

Her eyes widened quickly and she scooted back into her chair. "I don't need a grief counselor! I didn't even do anything!"

"How do we know you won't?" Sam asked softly. "I mean, with your sister's incident, if it is what we think it is – "

"And what do you think it is?"

"I think you can guess, Callie."

The girl shifted uncomfortably in her seat, but didn't answer. Sam noticed, so he tried to make his tone as sympathetic as possible when he asked, "Can you tell me what happened to your parents?"

It took her a while, a time during which Sam sat patiently and studied her various expressions, until she finally began her monologue. It seemed somewhat rehearsed, but he wrote that off as her having to tell the story to the cops one too many times.

"It was their anniversary," she said, lacing her fingers through her sister's on the bed. "But you already knew that. I was too young then to remember the specifics, but I do know that they told Tara to babysit me and Brian for the night. They figured she'd had enough practice with babies, so …"

"Brian?" Sam asked.

"My little brother. He was only a year old at the time." She paused for a brief moment, and then continued. "They were going to Macaroni Grill. It was where they first met, so they did it every year on their anniversary. The only problem was, the restaurant was fifteen miles from our house and the tires were balding on the Marquis. They went to the shop where Tara's boyfriend worked to have them changed out, because the Channel Five weatherman said it would snow pretty hard that night.

"The rest I only know from police reports. I guess once they left the shop and got on the road, about ten miles down the engine started to give out. My dad didn't want to pull over, and they didn't have much farther to go, so they kept on. The police said gas had been leaking into the car since my parents had turned it on, and when they reached the last mile marker, they were coughing uncontrollably. My dad lost control of the car and it crashed.

"Tara was worried sick when they didn't check in or show up later, so she called the cops. They found what was left of the car scattered along the road by three a.m."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, empathy in his expression.

"Thanks for the sentiment," Callie said softly, "but after eight years of hearing that, I've realized it's just procedure. No one really cares about my sob story anymore."

"That may be, but I meant it. I can understand."

Callie looked up, her eyes gleaming curiously.

"Everyone has a sob story," he answered her unspoken question. "Especially social workers. You think we do this 'cause we're all deep and sensitive?"

That made the edge of her mouth curl up into a half-smile. "I did before I met _James_ out there."

Sam chuckled, glancing at the closed door. When he turned around again, the smile had faded. "Callie, has anything happened in the past few months – like a fight or a disagreement – anything that Tara might have been stressed out about?"

"Not in the last few months, no," she replied calmly, looking down again.

"And before the last few months?"

Callie fidgeted a little before she answered. "There's just been … her boss was being a complete ass for a while, but once she got her promotion things settled down. Less hours, less stress, less … jerk. She hasn't complained to me for a long time."

"And you haven't fought with her lately?"

"Just the usual stuff," she said. "Spending money, who'll watch Brian, why can't I do my Calculus homework after I watch _What Not to Wear_. That kinda thing."

"I know this will be hard to talk about, for both of you, but I'm gonna need to know … how you found your sister."

"Do we have to do this again?" Callie said, standing up out of her chair and pacing around. "I mean, I had to do it at the scene, and then with the police and with the doctors. Can't you guys all just come together at one time so I can get it out of my system already? I'm so sick of this."

"Callie, calm down. I know it's difficult for you, but we can't help you if we don't know exactly what went on."

She stopped pacing mid-step and went to sit back down in her chair. "Okay, but I swear, this is the last time I'm saying it.

"Tara and Brian had stayed home—Brian because we were watching him one more day for our grandparents, and Tara because that day is always difficult for her. Brian has a friend down the street from us, and he went out right after school let out to play with him. Tara was making dinner and she told me she'd opened the oven to put the pizza in. She got dizzy all of a sudden and collapsed on the floor.

"When I got there, she was still, so I panicked … I screamed. I thought she might've been … so I called 911."

"Did it look like anyone else had been in the house? Any open doors, strange noises … ?"

"I don't know. I was kinda busy hyperventilating over my sister's unconscious body," she explained dryly. "Didn't you talk with the police?"

"Actually, no. We're given a case. We don't get specifics. That's generally what you're for."

Callie sighed. "No, I don't think anyone else was there. And just so we're clear, our oven is electric. Tara's not stupid. She wouldn't have tried that."

"So how was she gassed?"

"I don't know. Why do you need to know that, anyway?"

Sam looked puzzled for a second. "Oh, um … well, it would be easier for me to determine what this really was if I had more evidence on how she was poisoned."

"Right," Callie said slowly, a little skeptical.

"It doesn't look like Tara's gonna be waking up again soon, so I think we should go. We've got other appointments, but we'll be back tomorrow." Sam stood up, straightening out his shirt. Walking toward the door, he turned around to say, "It was nice meeting you," before he walked out.


	3. State Detectives

**Thou Shalt Not**  
_Disobey_

State Detectives

Sam met Dean out in the hallway and nodded to him, wordlessly announcing that it was time for them to leave. Dean looked positively bored out of his mind but he perked up as soon as he began walking.

"Man, she was hot," he remarked huskily.

"Who?" Sam thought about it for a brief moment, and then, realizing, shot his brother a dirty look. "Callie?"

"No. No! What? You think I'm a pedophile now?"

A nurse walked past just then, and Dean countered her disgusted expression with a wave and a friendly smile as if to reassure her that it wasn't what she was thinking. She only shook her head and continued on, and as soon as she disappeared around a corner, Dean dropped the act and regarded his brother with an incredulous glare.

"I have a strict policy against jailbait, Sam."

"Callie is eighteen. And awake. It only seemed obvious that you meant her."

"You're barking up the wrong skirt, man …"

"Dean, Tara was just poisoned by some phantom gas. And if you didn't notice, she's also in the hospital."

Dean chuckled. "Exactly. She just survived a near-death experience. She could use a little one-on-one with her counselor." He smirked. "Oh, and by the way, what was up with that shrink crap? Did you subscribe to _Psych Digest_, or something?"

Sam sighed and pushed the button on the elevator that would take them to the ground level. "If we're gonna talk the talk, we've gotta walk the walk, Dean. Especially if we want to find out what the hell is going on here."

"What are you talking about? I talked!"

"Yeah, well, your walk wasn't very convincing. I'm pretty sure she can tell we're posers, so, nice going, Freud. Or should I say 'fraud'?" He chuckled to himself, entertained by his own wit.

Dean stared at him until it became slightly uncomfortable and his brother stopped laughing abruptly. Then he rolled his eyes, irritated, but otherwise shrugged it off. "So what next?"

"I say we check out the house, maybe talk to a sheriff or a detective. Figure out what really happened."

"Oh, great idea, Sam. 'No, officer, we're her grief counselors. We just wanted to make sure she was really suicidal.' Yeah, she'll really believe us now."

-----

Sam turned the key in the ignition, revving the engine and bringing the Impala to life. Dean's eyes widened when he heard – and felt – the noises the car was making beneath his feet. "Hey, whoa! Calm down!" he exclaimed, trying to decide whether or not to grab the wheel. Sam quickly took his hand off of the key and let the car stall. Looking over at his brother's furious and incredulous face, he almost winced. "You _ever_ do that again, I swear I'll pummel your ass."

Sam didn't say anything to provoke him further – just started the car more carefully and eased out of the parking space at the hospital slowly, almost mockingly. Once he'd gotten onto the road, he held up a slip of paper in his hand, studying it thoughtfully, memorizing the address printed on it.

"So, Tara's parents," he started at last, "were killed in a car accident eight years ago."

Dean tapped out a complicated drum beat on his jeans, compensating for the music Sam wouldn't let him play as long as he was in the passenger's seat. "Yeah? So?"

"So guess how they died."

"Uh, gee, Sam, I dunno. Car accident?"

Sam maintained a serious expression, focusing on the road ahead of him to hide his annoyance. "Carbon monoxide poisoning," he corrected. "They were knocked unconscious by the impact, but it leaked out afterwards and that's what killed them. Apparently they'd been having car trouble beforehand."

"Carbon monoxide. Isn't that how Tara –"

"Yep."

Dean sat back and thought for a while, trying to piece together shards of information that were only just starting to make a little bit of sense. "So, what, you think the parents are coming back to avenge their deaths, or something?"

"It's possible," Sam confirmed. "Maybe they're not coming back to avenge, necessarily, but they definitely want something. Or, if it's _not_ them, the same thing that killed them is trying to kill Tara."

"Eight years later?"

"Spirits don't exactly have time limits on their vendettas, Dean. Especially not the angry ones."

The older Winchester furrowed his brow in confusion. "Just seems a little random. I mean, come on. It picks off the parents and then, more than half a decade down the road, just decides to off their daughter, too? Where's the logic in that?"

"I don't know yet. But we're going to find out."

Sam pulled into the driveway of a cream-colored, two-story house at the end of the block. The living room window was big and boasted a pleasant view of a well-kept interior, but the house was dark inside. A long strip of police tape stretched diagonally from one end of the front door to the other. The neighborhood looked empty and drawn, as if everybody else had receded into their own homes, refusing to acknowledge Tara's suicide attempt was real. In a neighborhood so small, where suicides were about as common as snow in summer, it was almost scandalous.

An unmarked police car pulled up beside them just then, and the cop behind the wheel looked through his window at Sam and Dean, no doubt wondering who they were and what the hell they were doing.

"Oh, great." Dean rolled his eyes and looked over at his brother. "So, who are we now, Sam? Grief counselors don't investigate the scene. He's not gonna believe that."

"We'll tell him we're detectives."

Dean pulled two fake badges from his stash. "Page and Plant?"

Sam stared at him briefly. "I fear for you the day we run into a cop who just happens to be a huge Zeppelin fan."

As if on cue, the cop stepped out of his squad car and motioned for Dean to roll down his window. He removed his sunglasses and bent to eye level.

"Officer," Dean greeted authoritatively.

"Who are you boys and what are you doing on this property? This isn't a playground."

"Right, well, we're state detectives." Sam held up his badge long enough to prove that it was legitimate and Dean followed suit. "We were told no one else would be around about now, so we could give the scene a once-over, but if we're getting in your way … "

"Well, as long as you're authorized." The officer paused. "You two look a little young to be detectives, but I guess I shouldn't judge. I'm Officer Morgan. I'm leading the police investigation. I wasn't informed that any detectives would be stopping by this afternoon."

"It was kind of short notice," Sam supplied.

"Yeah, I can see that. Well, if you'll step out and follow me, I can show you around, tell you a little more about what supposedly happened." He shook his head gravely. "I just don't get it. I've known this family since those three kids were born, and Tara never once struck me as the suicidal type. It was quite a shock."

"Oh, we've heard the whole story," said Dean. "We were just up at the hospital talking to Tara's sister before this."

"Yeah, we've spoken to her already, too. She's in denial. She doesn't know much." Officer Morgan stepped into the quiet, still house, the only light coming from outside. Everything else was covered in shadows and a chilly silence. "Not much help, really."

Sam and Dean glanced at one another knowingly. They were sure they knew more about this situation individually than Officer Morgan and his acolytes combined.

"Anyway, the kitchen is right through here. Everything is as it was when the accident happened. We would appreciate it if you left it that way, too – you know, try not to mess with anything, if you can help it. Otherwise, I'll just … leave you to it." He glanced briefly around the dimly-lit kitchen before leaving the room, and Sam and Dean waited to hear the front door shut before they got started. When he was sure they were alone, Dean pulled his EMF from his back pocket and turned it on. He expected it to spike right away, but nothing happened.

"EMF's cold. Guess there's no Casper the Homicidal Ghost floatin' around in here," he said. "You got anything?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing." He looked around and his eyes fell upon the oven across the room, the door still open, the inside dark. He sighed. "Uh, Dean. You forgetting something?"

Dean grinned and strolled over to the refrigerator, opening it and sticking his hand in. "Don't mind if I do."

Sam rolled his eyes and shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently. "Dean, don't steal their food. We'll stop somewhere when we leave. Just do your job, all right?" He turned away to face the window. "I'll see if there's any sulfur left behind."

"I don't know. I don't think any demon is causing this."

"Better to be safe than sorry."

"Yeah, I guess. Hey, I think I got something." The EMF spiked, screeching high and distinct as Dean moved closer to the oven. "It's hot over here." He chuckled. "Who woulda thunk?"

Sam walked over and grabbed the EMF from him, and crouched down to check out the inside of the appliance. The EMF shot all the way up, remaining steady in one spot. There was no doubt now that something otherworldly existed here. Whatever had happened to Tara definitely wasn't self-inflicted.

"So, what do you think this thing is?" Dean wondered.

Sam shook his head and stood back up. "I don't know. I don't understand how it's even possible that Tara could have been poisoned by carbon monoxide when this oven is electric. Unless …"

"What?"

He peered towards the dining room and the back door which, not wanting to have to go around front and deal with Officer Morgan again, he hoped was unlocked. "I've got an idea."


	4. Certain Lines

**A/N:** Sorry it took so long to get this chapter out. I've had a lot on my plate lately. The next few chapters will totally be worth it though, I promise!

Thou Shalt Not_  
Disobey_

**Certain Lines  
**

Dean picked up the pencil again, rolling it back and forth on the desk across from his brother. The sound it made caused Sam to look up from his computer, an agitated expression on his face.

"Dean," he said, making his brother glance in his direction while continuing to roll the pencil. "They leave those there for you to write with, not to annoy everyone in the building."

The noise stopped, and Sam directed his attention back to the computer screen. Four seconds later, the pencil collided with his forehead.

"What's with you?" asked Sam. Observing his brother's fidgeting was reason enough to ask. "You look like you're about to pick up your Homecoming date."

"What?" said Dean absentmindedly. "I'm fine. Too much coffee this morning. Mind your own business."

"Since when is your business not mine?"

Dean gave him a look in place of the witty reply he couldn't come up with.

"Look, I'm gonna be in here for a while, so if you're just going to sit there and throw pencils at me, leave."

Gripping the sides of the desk to stand up, he said, "Fine. I'll go see if Tara knows anything. Not as good as watching your face when you get nailed in the forehead, but I'll live."

"Hey, pick me up when you're done there," Sam called, sighing as Dean walked out, scrolling down the page of a potentially informative website.

---

Dean walked up the steps, ringing the doorbell of the house they'd just illegally investigated yesterday. He stuffed his hands in his pockets after reforming the collar of his jacket back into its original mold.

The door opened and Dean looked forward. No one was there. He was about to step in when he heard the squeak of the hardwood. He cast his gaze downward and saw a boy standing there, looking up curiously.

"Oh, hey, little man," he said amiably. "You Brian?"

"My sisters told me not to talk to strangers," he said with a grimace, looking over his shoulder quickly.

"Then why'd you open the door?" Dean asked. The kid didn't attempt a reply, and Dean rolled his eyes at his thought process. "Nevermind. I'm a friend of Tara's. Is she home?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Dean said, waiting for him to make a move. When nothing happened after a couple of seconds, he added, "Can you go get her?"

Brian turned and walked away, leaving the door wide open. Dean peered into the house, noticing that the messenger boy was now in the living room, sitting four feet away from the television with his eyes fixed on the screen.

"If there was an award for the world's shortest attention span, we'd have a winner … " he mumbled as he stepped over the threshold. He closed the door behind him and walked into the living room. When she spotted him, Callie immediately stood up from the couch she'd been spread out on.

"Hold on, Cheyenne," she said into the mouthpiece of the phone at her ear, giving Dean a quick glance and moving past him. "I have to go upstairs."

Dean looked after her but decided to let it go. He remembered there'd been some bills on the kitchen counter when they'd "inspected" the place, so he figured that if Tara was anywhere, she would probably be there.

He walked past the goldfish and _Spongebob Squarepants_, watching as the kid's head tilted to each side as he passed between the two. Once he reached the kitchen he spotted Tara at the counter, her head bent over the pile of envelopes before her. Her hair was tied back in a bun to reveal the side of her face. Her expression was almost anguished, but other than that the rest of her body was ... Dean put on his cocky grin.

"Hey," he said as he leaned on the kitchen doorframe.

Tara looked up from the bills, some of her messy hair falling out of the ponytail with the jerk of her neck. "Um, hi," she said skeptically, slowly opening the counter drawer behind her with her index finger.

Dean saw the action and held up his hands. "Oh, hey. I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm James, your grief counselor."

"You say that to all your victims?" Tara's eyebrow was raised.

"No, really," he said in lame confirmation, searching his pocket for his fake I.D. "You're, uh … your sister can vouch for me."

Tara's hazel eyes narrowed at that statement, and she picked up the landline on the wall.

"Callie? … Oh, deal with it. Hi, Cheyenne. Callie, do you know a guy—short brown hair, dressed like he just robbed a thrift shop … yeah, he's kind of annoying, I guess. Okay, fine."

She hung up the phone and looked at Dean, who was gazing down at his clothes with indignation in his expression.

"A thrift shop?"

"Hey," she said good-naturedly. "Let's start over. Hi, I'm Tara."

Dean scowled a little. "James."

---

"Don't you need a notepad or something?" Tara asked suddenly, interrupting herself in the middle of a description of her childhood. "How are you gonna remember all this?"

"I'm just that good," Dean said, a quick grin passing across his countenance. "So, your parents. Seems like they really cared about you."

"Yeah, they _really _did," she confirmed.

"Then why the sarcasm?"

"You caught that, huh?" Tara stole a glance at the living room to make sure her brother's eyes were still fixed on the television. "They were extremely overprotective of my sister and me. When I got to high school they didn't want me getting into drugs, alcohol, or boys' rooms, so they cut me off from a lot. Clubs, parties, and the entire male population were all off-limits.

"They really started getting into religion a few years after I was born. They would always bark the Ten Commandments at us when we acted up. I remember this one time, I took Callie's Malibu Barbie and hid it from her. My mother caught me doing it and went all Jerry Springer. She used to yell, 'Thou shalt not steal, Tara!' If anything, we learned the art of archaic language so young it would've made Shakespeare proud."

"Did that ever cause conflicts between you?"

Rolling her eyes, she said, "Do you have three hours?"

"I have all the time you need," he remarked huskily.

Tara smirked briefly, continuing her reply. "Me and my parents weren't in the same book, let alone on the same page. They call it a generation gap, but this … I don't even know if there's a name for what we had. I wanted it all. I wanted to _live,_ ya know? Experience something. To my parents, having a job was greed, listening to music was sloth, smiling at a guy was lust. And even if it _was_ most of the time, they weren't right to take it away. I swear, I would've been flying out that door come graduation if they hadn't … "

She stopped suddenly, looking down at the table and shifting her glass of water between her two hands uncomfortably.

Dean felt the hesitation, so he continued his interrogation. "Did you, maybe, have a fight right before their accident?"

Tara sniffed and then looked up, her expression collected. "Yeah. Yeah, we did. It was over my boyfriend."

"You had a … Okay, well, I don't need you to explain that one."

"You don't look like the type to follow orders at the drop of a hat, but the way you were just talking sounded like you've never even heard of the words 'teenage' or 'rebellion'."

Dean smiled with her, trying to hide the fact that her first assumption was completely false. "So … the boyfriend. Did they catch you with him? Sneaking out or going at it – "

"Not even close. You overestimate my parents' tolerance levels," she said evenly. "The simple fact that I had a boyfriend was enough for them to consider sending me to a convent."

"Would you mind explaining the fight in a little more detail?"

"Tyler's name slipped out when Callie and I were watching a movie. It was the day before their anniversary. I think it wouldn't have been _as _bad if it was some Catholic schoolboy, a straight-A student with a future degree in medicine who would someday cure cancer. But Tyler was a biker with three tattoos and a very personal relationship with the entire Mundelein police department.

"The fight itself … that was over quick. The mutual silent treatment took longer. They made me break up with Tyler immediately. They had me call him while we were still fighting and end it over the phone."

Dean's eyes bugged for a second, but Tara didn't look up in time. "What happened with _Tyler_? D'he get upset—egg a car, buy some spray paint?"

"He might've been a tattooed biker, but he wasn't_ that_ much of a cliché. He got mad, like any testosterone-driven guy on the bad end of a groundless break-up would be."

"Did he know your parents forced you to?"

It was almost invisible, but Dean picked up her momentary flinch. "Of course he knew.

"Look, I know you want to know everything," she sighed after a moment, standing up slowly. "I get that. But I remember agreeing that we wouldn't get into any of the heavy stuff until at least the third session."

"Well," Dean said, shifting his eyes towards the analog clock above the kitchen sink. "We've only got twenty minutes before the end of two, so don't stop now."

Tara spun around on her toes to see the clock, the hands of which now pointed at the six and the nine. "Wow. It's night."

"Which usually comes after day."

"Time flies … " she started. "Um, I have to make dinner for these two screwballs, so do we have a set time? Am I supposed to see you regularly?"

"Weekly sessions are the hospital's policy, but," he started uncertainly, standing up from the chair and taking the cell phone out from his back pocket, "it looks like … I'm completely booked next week. Yeah. Alright, here's what we can do. I'm free tomorrow. I can pick you up at around seven and we'll head to someplace with a little more privacy, like a restaurant."

Tara leaned back on the counter, a small smile on her lips. "Are you allowed to do that?"

"What?"

"Ask out patients."

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he raised an eyebrow. "I was just setting up another session, Tara. But if you want to believe that … "

Dean started to walk out, the smile on Tara's face winning out over the skepticism. It dropped the moment he turned around.

"Oh, I, uh, forgot to mention. Your gas lines … do you know what section of the house they go through?"

She looked puzzled. "I have a feeling I should, but I have no idea."

Dean stared at her for a minute, determining her attitude in proportion to her answer. When he was finally satisfied that she was telling the truth, he stepped out of the kitchen with a short, "Be seein' you."

Tara's face read her complete incomprehension. After she shook herself back from her thoughts, her head tilted to one side while she watched Dean's backside vacate the room. "Bye, James."

---

Dean slammed the door of the Impala shut, frowning at the creaking noise it made as it did so. He made a mental note to oil the hinges, but he would most likely forget about it the moment he stepped into the motel room.

When he approached the door with their room number, he slid the key into the lock and waited for the light to turn green.

The open door revealed a small table with a cable TV balanced on top and two queen beds. On one of them sat Sam, a trail of wet carpet and bed sheets leading from the him to the door.

"Dude, you're soaked," said Dean, half-laughing at his younger brother's expense, his job to pick him up from the library having completely slipped his mind.

Sam sent an irate glare Dean's way while he took off his shoe, turning it upside down to drain out the rainwater within. "Seriously?" he asked, with as much sarcasm and irritation as he could fit into one word.


End file.
